


Very Sorry

by eddi



Series: edd's drabble collection [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Drabble, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:58:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddi/pseuds/eddi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You stared at the stem of your snifter glass with your cheek pressed to the table, hangover not helped by the brunching boozing. I flew in that morning at your convenience.</p><p>“I need the film rights for Complacency of the Learned.”</p><p>“...You must still be drunk.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Very Sorry

When we were mere children you were gawky and long. 

Your eyes downcast constantly, Walkman blasting a mix of your brother’s. Or maybe brotha’s. You used those words so interchangeably that few understood if you referred to relation by blood or bond.

Fresh from university I leapt from cubicle to cubicle for less than change, watching the creases deepen in your brow slowly where you bussed tables and snatched tips.

They fired you for eating out of the bus bins; you slept on their outside tables for two weeks to prove a point that was lost on all.

Passing months found you in my bed while I worked, vice versa. Mother taught me to never allow a man with such idle hands and vivacious imagination sleep on the street, as the world would regret if his mind were wasted without being shared.

She was more likely than not talking from her ethanol cortex or just completely full of shit.

My urgings led you to a partial semester of film school. You learned how to format manuscripts and told them to get fucked.

A year past dropping out, you bought your ticket to Hollywood. As I was preparing to release my first novel, you had your funding set up for your debut feature.

Flash forward five years.

The pressure is on. The first film outside your farcical franchise fatally flopped. 

And the second.

And the third.

You stared at the stem of your snifter glass with your cheek pressed to the table, hangover not helped by the brunching boozing. I flew in that morning at your convenience.

“I need the film rights for Complacency of the Learned.”

“…You must still be drunk.”

“Rose, I need the film rights. It’s the only way I can make it back.”

“You are impressively fucked up, aren’t you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“This isn’t going to help.”

“Can we just go through the contract again?”

You weren’t listening to me. I had seen you down many times. I met you at one of the deepest troughs. The introduction of socializing starlet expectancies brought you to substance as your great emotional problem solver.

Alcohol, however, was not your friend. Belligerence wasn’t cool. Stumbling over yourself, being too stupid to function, wasn’t cool. 

Blow was much more your style, but I dared not mention it then.

Over the next year you found that out on your own. A week-long binge and you had a manuscript primed. The resulting film earned you your first Academy Award.

You’d found your magic pixie dust.

The kids grew closer as yours lost you to yourself and the rest of the world. He stayed with me and mine for quite a while when you were gone.

When the drugs led to the arrest of a mutual friend, you backed off.

Picked it up again to fight your writer’s block.

Dropped it again just as your agent suspected it was getting to be a problem for your image.

Forward to present.

We are on the phone.

“You blocked me for what reason? Because you didn’t want me to find out? Because you didn’t want me to be ashamed? Because you didn’t want me to tell Dirk?”

“I’m fine.”

“Addicts lie. First thing you learn in family therapy.”

“I’m not an addict. Why would you know that about family therapy. Did you finally drag Roxy?”

“That’s beside the point, D. Talk to me. Tell me what is going on.”

“Nothing is going on. I’m sorry. That’s all.”

“You are very sorry. Remorseful? No.”

“Sorry to let you down.”

“Your eyes aren’t even open to what is obvious in front of you.”

“Rose.”

“Dave.”

“Rosalinda.”

“David.”

“Rosalinda Snark-Ass Lalonde.”

“We’re not doing the full name thing, D.”

You groan in my ear.

“Dirk is worried,” I say.

“Don’t talk about my kid.”

“He’s worried about you. He told Roxy.”

“I’m fine. Fuck off.”

“Are you going to bark at me the entire time we speak? I’m just trying to tell you that everyone is worried about your habits.”

“There’s no habits. I’m writing this script. And I’ll be done. I’ll sleep and everything. Then I’ll work. No more parties.”

“You weren’t even working on it when you were partying last month anyway.”

“Rose. If you don’t get off my ass, I swear to God.”

“Just a forewarning, Dirk might be attempting an intervention. You know how he is when it comes to things like this.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Strider—”

The line goes dead.

I find no joy when my sudden donning of solid pitch garb garners no attention. I always love to properly mourn your rationality.


End file.
